


Watching Through My Fingers

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Children, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:18:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once he starts to look for it, Porthos can only see Aramis in the dauphin. (post-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching Through My Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr with the prompt, "More Porthos & Dauphin, with Porthos seeing the ways in which the boy is similar to Aramis and thinking it's a small blessing no one knows Aramis well enough to notice those, which are so so obvious to him."

It’s interesting to Porthos that the King of France is so shy. It’s not something he’d really voice to anyone, but a thought that crosses his mind the few times he’s come to the palace since being promoted as General. The boy’s general look is entirely the queen’s – and Porthos is grateful for small mercies – but there are moments, out of the corner of his eye, when Porthos has to stop and look.

Today, he’s on his way to the council meeting when he catches sight of the King outside, playing in the garden with the servants. Porthos pauses, glances, watches as the King darts out from behind a shrub to scare one of the maids, who lets out a loud whoop that startles the King. He stumbles back, blinks once, and then flips his hair from his eyes.

It’s a simple, small moment. But every move is Aramis’. The way his shoulders go rigid first, the way his eyes open wide second, and the way he jerks his chin back, quickly, a small puff of breath as the hair moves from his eyes. Small. Easy to miss. Completely Aramis. 

“General?” the pageboy in front of him prompts, quietly, drawing Porthos’ attention away from the window. “Her Majesty and the council are waiting.” 

“Go on,” Porthos says, glancing back out the window towards the dauphin one last time before resuming the pace. 

It’s not the only moment, either. He notes them more and more as the years pass. The boy’s seventh birthday and he laughs, soft and quiet, like he’s trying to hide it – a small, pitched high version of Aramis’ laugh. Summer at the palace, watching the King dip his feet into the fountain and curling his toes up when the water proves too cold – Aramis. The King’s writing lessons, watching him tap his fingers against the paper, chew on the tip of his quill – Aramis. Laughing – Aramis. Refusing to cry – Aramis. Biting the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking deeply – Aramis. 

They’re all small, inconsequential moments – but every time Porthos returns to the palace, he sees them. The boy grows more and more like Aramis each day. 

Today, weeks after there is finally peace between France and Spain, weeks since he’s been able to be home, for good, and it’s a sunny day in the gardens at the palace. An eight year old Marie is running down the hedge grove, trotting behind a tall and lanky King, and Porthos watches her with a small, quiet smile. Leaves are stuck in her hair. Some might think it unbecoming, but he thinks it’s cute – and suits her. 

Aramis is seated at the bench beside him, retying the lace of his boot that’s come undone. He lets out a long, tired sigh as he stretches out, bathing in the sun – a motion he’s seen only an hour before with the King. 

In the distance, Marie shrieks out in surprise when she turns a corner and the King is there, closer than she’d expected. He fumbles, flustered, hands reaching up as if to steady her and then hesitating, hovering uselessly. Aramis. He says something to her that Porthos can’t hear, but the expression is clear. Aramis. Marie says something, drops a haphazard curtsey befitting a small child like her, but before she can run off again, the King picks a flower to offer her in apology. Aramis. Aramis. Aramis. 

Porthos presses a hand to his temple, rubbing a small circle, and sighs. It’s a damn good thing the King looks like his mother.


End file.
